


The Dark-Dragon and The Wolf-Prophet

by Lyze



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, DIREWOLVES FUCKERS, F/M, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Violence, dark ish maybe, dragon sibs cuz Drogon Viserion and Rheagal are so fricking cute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-08-03 19:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16332443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyze/pseuds/Lyze
Summary: "Take me," she whispered to the Many-Faced-God. "Take me home."He granted her wish. Just not in the way she had imagined.The Many-Faced-God had plans for her.And, really, it all started when the Starks dared to venture south.On temp. Hiatus





	1. Epilogue

**Author's Note:**

> Ok. FOR THE RECORD
> 
> *deep breath*
> 
>  
> 
> I HAVE NEVER READ THE BOOK. DON'T JUDGE MEEEEE
> 
> I want to read them, I really do, but I CANNOT STAND WHEN CHARACTERS DIE IN BOOKS.
> 
>  
> 
> so yeah. Don't like it, GET THE HELL OFF MY FANFIC.
> 
>  
> 
> PS: NONE OF THIS BELONGS TO ME, ALL HAIL HBO AND G.R.R.M

Arya was nothing and no one. Once, she had seen it as her greatest achievement. She was No One, therefore she was Anyone, capable of serving the Many-Faced God. And oh, how she had  _served_. She gave to him the Freys, the Baratheons (including the blacksmith bastard, who called her name even though she could not remember his) and the Lanissters. She even killed the Tarlys, the Boltons, illegal occupants of Winterfell that they were. 

She would have kept on going-kept on killing and killing and killing if it wasn't for Jon. Jon, her sweet sibling who called her name and grabbed her shoulders and  _held her_ until she was forced to remember who he was-who  _she_ was. It nearly broke her. It was losing Father and Mother and Robb and Rickon like it was the first time-except it was worse, because this time they died all at once, and it tore her heart into a million pieces. Arya curled on her bed, unseeing and silent, for over a week.

Then the war happened. Against the  _Others_. And she  _hated_ them, these creatures that dared to defy the Many-Faced-God in such a blatant manner. Fighting to survive and becoming an  _other_ was completely different. And she saw her service now. Death wanted them gone. Death hated these creatures even more than she did. Or he did, until she hated them  _more_.

 

They killed everyone. They killed Jon and Bran and Sansa, even the queen and her dragons. Nymeria. They killed all the Lords and the smallfolk and then the woman and the children and even the animals. But they kept her alive. She didn't know why-they merely tied her to a post in the middle of Winterfell's remains and left her to die, slowly, from the cold. She was the only one left now. They had continued south. Arya's only consolation was that Cersei would die, along with every other southron lord. They would meet death soon.

Arya closed her eyes, feeling the shivers begin to fade. It had been days now. A Stark does not die from the cold, not easily at least. She wished she did-this was torture, this burning numbness that invaded every limb and nerve. Her fingers-her  _hands_ \- were shriveled black, and she knew they were dead. 

"Take me," she whispered to the Many-Faced-God. "Take me home."

 

He granted her wish. Just not in the way she had imagined.

 

The Many-Faced-God had plans for her.

 

 

And, really, it all started when the Starks dared to venture south.

 


	2. Chapter One: Awakening

Arya woke up with tears in her eyes.  _Jon. Jon isn't a bastard. Oh, I can't wait to see Mother's face!_ The dream lady-the Mother of Dragons- said he was Aegon Targaryen. Heir to that big stupid throne in the south. Part of Arya was skeptical. If there was one thing Jon wasn't, it was  _kingly_. He was kind and a little awkward and a little sad, sometimes, when he didn't think she was looking. But still- the dragon lady wasn't lying. She could feel that in the marrow of her bones like she could feel winter. 

She sniffed, wiping away her happy tears. Arya crawled out of bed, pulling on a simple shirt and breeches that she was sure to get yelled at for later. She'd had to steal all her breeches from Bran, and quite often too. Her lady-mother or Septa Mordane kept taking them away from her, because it 'wasn't proper. Like she cared. She was going to become a great warrior-princess, like Visenya Targaryen or Princess Nymeria. The would tell tales about  _her_ to other little girls one day. 

Arya pulled on her boots over her socks, wrapped a black-fur cloak around her shoulders (It was too warm, but it would hide her clothes-choice from her mother) and pulled open the heavy wooden doors of her room. She frowned. Should it be so heavy? "Stupid," she scowled, "It's just the same as it was yesterday." Shaking her head sharply to dispel the feeling, Arya let the door shut behind her, scurrying for the dining hall. Her stomach growled, and she yearned for lemon cakes like a wolf did bone marrow. She ducked under the table, reaching up to snatch the sweets before making her way to Jon's table-the table for  _bastards_. Ha! He should be on a pedestal right now. The thought made Arya smile. 

"Arya Tully Stark! Get back to the table, now!" Arya flinched, hands curling dangerously tight around the sweets. Wonderful. Now she would have to sit at the high table- _again._ Muttering the most unladylike curses she could think of under her breath, Arya skulked back to the table, looking rather like a mopy dog with its tail lowered to the floor. Mayhaps she would tell her lady-mother about Jon's true title later, when she wasn't already mad. Honestly, why couldn't she yell at Sansa for a change? It was her who allowed Joffrey to cut off their father's- 

the thought slipped away like water through splayed fingers. Arya blinked, paused midstep, and then at her lady mother's insistence, kept walking. She cast a regretful glance over her shoulder at the bastards table. Jon wasn't even there yet- he wouldn't know that she tried to sit with him. Arya cast a scathing look at her mother, and, when that didn't work, at Sansa. She was, after all, their mother's mirror, her like in all but name. Arya loved her mother-but she loathed Sansa, for bullying her, calling her Horseface, laughing at her with Jeyne at her side. Arya wished Jon was her true sibling instead.  _He_ understood her.  _Jon will want me, even if nobody else does._ The thought felt familiar. It felt dark, too, shadowed with pain and loneliness. All of a sudden, Arya found herself blinking away tears. She subtly tried to wipe her face with a sleeve. 

"Alright, sister?" Robb said from beside her. Arya nodded, not saying a word.  _Oh, how good it was to hear his voice! It had been_ so-

_hours._

_It has only been hours_ , Arya thought.  _Why am I being so foolish? Even Sansa isn't so sentimental! And she swooned over every knight tale!_ Which was, in Arya's much wiser opinion, a foolish, stupid thing to do. Who cared about knights? They were everywhere. Warrior princesses were much more interesting. Sighing to herself, Arya proceeded to stock her plate with her usual fare. She was surprised-and irritated- to find that she could only eat a quarter of it before she felt full. And when she took a bite of lemon cake, the sweetness made her face twist, nose scrunching up. She nearly spat it out, forcing herself to swallow and tossing the sweet back onto the plate. Her neck prickled with awareness, and she looked up to see Jon watching her with furrowed brows. She cheered up instantly, beaming. He blinked, then grinned back. If Arya were beside him, she would have smacked him upside the head and called him stupid, just out of principle. He had to be stupid if he was surprised that she was happy to see him. Gods, she  _missed_ him. This wasn't unusual. Any moment without Jon by her side always felt too long.

 With a side-glance at her mother-oh, thank the gods, she was busy talking with father- Arya slithered out of her chair and slunk through the shadows of the room until she reached Jon's table. He angled himself so his shoulders blocked her from view. It wasn't hard-she was tiny. Always was, always would be, even after everything she faced-

The thought withered and died, and Arya experienced a moment of disorientation. Maybe she should visit the maester-but then her lady mother would take it as an excuse to keep her away from Jon, so no, she would not. 

 Arya pressed herself into his side, burrowing into his cloak and breathing in his scent. His arm settled on her shoulders, warm and heavy and comforting. She relaxed, previously unfelt tension melting from her shoulders. 

"Something wrong?" His voice made her so happy and so sad. Arya wanted to make the sadness go away from his voice. She didn't know how she'd missed it before-it shadowed almost everything he spoke. Now, though, it was laced with worry, too.  mostly worry.

"You should be up there too," Arya mumbled. "You're just as noble-more, even. I don't think mother knows, but she  _should._ Father should have told her." Jon frowned down at her. 

"Arya...What are you  _talking_ about? I'm just the basta-"

"Don't call yourself that!" Arya yelled, pulling away and jumping to her feet. the hall fell silent, and Arya could  _feel_ her mother's gaze burning into her back, but she didn't care. She stomped her foot, crying "You're not a bastard! You're not! Just ask father!" She turned and ran out of the hall, wiping away her tears. 

She wanted to tell him you aren't even a Stark, but you are _a_ _Targaryen._ Some instinct held her back. Father kept such a secret for a reason, and Arya was aware of this on a near-subconscious level. She headed instead to the stables, mounting a horse and racing out the gates before any of her father's men could stop her. As she raced down the road, Arya passed a soldier.  _Oh, that is right-they apprehended the oathbreaker from the night's watch._ Arya dreamed about that, too. 

_We found direwolves in the way back,_ Jon told her, smiling gently.  _The mother was dead, but I convinced father to keep them-this one is yours. He handed her a pup furred with grey and white on her belly. Arya took one look at her and said "Her name is Nymeria. She's going to send southron lords cowering, just you wait." She peered at the other one he held-snow white, and smaller than the others, and declared "That one is Ghost. Just look at him-he's a wolf-wraith."_

 Arya led her horse down until she found the bridge and the stag. It was barely dead yet, guts still steaming ever so slightly. Arya dismounted smoothly, tying her horse to a nearby tree. She scurried down the steep fall of dirt and moss, falling to her knees beside the mother. Despite her joy in finding Nymeria, she felt sorrow for the mother. She stroked her great head. 

"It's okay, she soothed. "I'll take care of them now-and Jon will too. Don't worry." Arya pulled off her cloak, picking up the pups and bundling them up together. She found Ghost a small distance away from the others. If he hadn't been whimpering, she would have missed him, white coat or not. Clucking her tongue, Arya picked him up by the scruff and tucked him in with his siblings.

They would be searching for her, she knew, and the pups must be starved by now, so she did not delay heading home as she usually would have. She wasn't looking forward to facing her mother's wrath - _a lady doesn't disturb the meals of the men,_ she could almost hear her say. And a proper lady doesn't sit at the bastards table, either. Arya snorted at the thought. She led the horse into the stables-ignoring the watchmen's comments about how furious her lady mother was, and how much trouble she was in- and headed straight for the servant's passages. She needed to get milk for the pups. 

The kitchen staff were long-since used to Arya's eccentricities, and didn't blink an eye at her request for two pints worth of milk. Arya ordered them sent to her solar. Her hands were already occupied, and she would rather not spill it all. She and a serving girl-Mory, a quiet but cheerful girl who regularly helped Arya sneak food from the kitchens- took the servants passageways to the hallway before her solar. Arya Settle the pups on the bed, taking the bowls of milk from Mory, who eyed the pups nervously. 

"Arya, the lady Catelyn..." 

"Will be mad at me, not you," Arya said dismissively. "Don't worry about it-I can handle my mother being angry. Hurry, before she realizes you helped me!" Mory ducked her head and fled the room without another word. Her Lady Mother's rage was a fierce thing to behold, and everyone save Arya was smart to fear it.  Arya settled the pups on the floor, in front of the bowls of milk. They lapped at it eagerly, seeking it with new, still-blind eyes.

They were nearly half-way finished when Arya's family burst in through the doors.

First and foremost was Arya's mother. Catelyn Tully Stark-red of hair, beautiful even in her age, and green eyes blazing with more fury than Arya thought proper. To Arya's surprise, father was there too. Usually, he left her punishment to her mother-and then subtly helped her escape them. But there was a worry lurking underneath his stark-grey eyes. Robb and Sansa and Bran were there too. Jon was behind them, grey eyes dark with worry and resignation as he looked from her to Catelyn. All of them, however, paused at the sight of the pups. Arya stepped in front of them protectively, not that she could actually do.

"Wolves," Ned breathed. 

"Direwolves," Arya corrected. "I found them off the road. By the dead stag."

"Aye," Ned said darkly. "We found the mother. What are they doing here, Arya?" She crossed her arms and glowered as best she could.

"Their mine! I found them. Besides-their the sigil of House Stark. I wasn't going to let  them  _die_." Catelyn gritted her teeth.

"Yes, you are-a Lady has no business keeping  _wild beasts_ for pets. And you are hardly in need of a  _reward_ for your ghastly behavior today at the table." Arya squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

"Then it's a good thing I'm not a lady, isn't it? I already named them! And I can raise them, too!" She turned to her father. "Without help!" she said hurriedly. "I'll do it all by myself, and go to all my sewing lessons, and knit stupid scarves, and wear dresses to the table, able, and keep out of trouble, and I won't pull Sansa's hair, or sneak out of the castle-" 

"Alright, alright," Ned said resignedly. He glanced at the wolves again and chuckled wryly.

"Ned!" Catelyn snapped. His face turned stern again. 

"You go to  _all_ your lessons," he said firmly. Arya nodded hastily. "If you miss a single one, I'll order them cast out to fend for themselves." Arya wrinkled her nose but nodded again. "Will you be sharing them with your siblings?" Ned asked, bending down to pet one's head. Arya snorted in a most unladylike manner.

"No. I found them, I keep them! Except for Jon. He can have the white one, ghost. He's small now, but he'll be the biggest when he's older." That made Catelyn's nostrils flare dangerously. 

"The bastard has no right to House Starks sigil-"

"He isn't a bastard!" Arya yelled. "He's our  _cousin!_  Leave him alone-You have already bullied him long enough!" Father's face went pale, and his hands came to clench on her shoulders. 

"Everybody  _out_ ," he said sharply. "Jon, Cat, stay. The rest of you- _out!Now!"_

Sansa smiled smugly, cast Jon a scathing look, and swept out of the room with her nose stuck higher than a braavosi whore's breasts. Arya was tempted to make a rude gesture behind her back, but then her Mother would  _really_ have it out on her.

" _Arya,"_ Ned said sharply once the door shut. "What are you talking about, sweetling?" Arya glared at the door for a moment longer before looking to him.

"Jon is Aegon Targaryen. His mother was Lyanna. Why are you asking  _me_? You already knew if you were lying about it to mother. And look at how she treated him!" She snapped. "It isn't fair!" His hands clenched painfully tight on her shoulders, and she winced.

"Who told you this!? Who said these things to you, Arya? Tell me!" She cringed away from him, startled by the fear and anger in his voice.

"I dreamed about it," she said in a tiny voice. "The Mother of Dragons told me." It should have been impossible, but Ned's face paled further. He looked like bone that had been bleached by the sun.

"The mother of dragons?" He repeated tightly. Arya nodded shyly.

"She had silver hair," she said softly. "And violet eyes. She was mad when she said it, so I don't think she was lying.  She said that Jon was heir to the big stupid throne in the south. Then she said that he had better not contest her claim, because she earned the big stupid throne. 

"I dreamed about the direwolves, too," She added after a moment. Jon said they found them after you executed the traitor from the Night's Watch, and that the mother was dead. So I went looking when I saw the soldier arrive on my way out-"

  "You saw this?" He said softly. "No one told you this, Arya, or said it to someone else?" Arya shook her head, wiping away a tear. Father-father had never been  _mad_ at her before, not truly.

"Lord Stark?" Jon's hesitant voice made her and Ned jump.  Oh, Jon! He was so pale, his dark grey eyes wide, and Arya had a distinct impression that he was ready to fall. She jumped over to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. His arms encircled her after a moment's hesitation. She snuggled against him, twisting her head to listen to him and father.

"Why?" Jon rasped. "Why lie about it? Why raise me a...A  _bastard_?" He spat the word out like the filth it was. Ned sighed, so softly Arya almost didn't hear it. 

"Lyanna...Loved Rheagar. And he loved her too. He annuled his marriage to Ellia, and married her instead, in secret. I, along with everybody else, had no idea. I genuinely thought he kidnapped her. They...They ran away together. When I found her in that tower, she had just given birth to you. It was an early childbirth, made under the stress of battle. She didn't survive it." A haunted look, so so very saddened, settle on his face like mist over a lake. Heavy and thick. "She made me promise. To keep you safe. Robert, if he knew, would have had you killed. He hated Rheagar, and you were-still are- the heir to the iron throne. A contest to his claim, the last of the Targaryen line, aside from Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen. But you have claim before they do. So I brought you home, and raised you as a Snow because it was the only way to keep you safe. A bastard was the only thing Robert would have believed, especially as you had your mother's looks. My looks." Arya's gaze flicked to her mother. Trembling fingers were pressed to her mouth, and she gazed at Jon with something akin to horror. horror and fear. She had bullied and denied the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Oh, yes, even little Arya could see how grievous an error that had been. Without another word, Lady Cat stood and left the room. She shut the door firmly but quietly. Arya saw her father winced. Mother hated to be lied to, and Arya pitied him. He was in for a reckoning. Ned sighed, glancing from the door to Arya and back again. Finally, he said; "No one else can know. Otherwise, Jon, you will be pursued by assassins for the rest of your life. And Arya-tell no one of your dreams. Not Robb or Bran or Rickon." He didn't bother mentioning Sansa. The two of them struggled to keep a conversation civil, nevermind exchanging secrets.

"if you see anything else," he said with a strained voice, "You tell me right away." Arya thought about that for a moment. 

"Can I tell Jon?" She said nervously. She was absolutely terrible at keeping secrets from him, and she despised doing it." Ned shook his head. 

"If you want. He already knows regardless, so it can't do any harm." He gave Jon a firm look. "Protect your cousin," he said darkly. "Green dreams are not to be taken lightly, and some people would do terrible things to obtain such power." Jon nodded gravely, murmuring a quick,

"My lord." 

Then father left, and they were alone. Arya took one look at Jon, with his shell-shocked expression, and said,

 

"I  _told_ you so,  _stupid."_

 

Jon burst out laughing.


	3. Why I haven't updated

Well, my laptop is DEAD.

FIRST the cat chewed through my charger

THEN the new charger comes in. It works- and then the house electricity goes wonky, shorts or my computer and my charger, and when it finally starts working again, the charger starts smoking and DIES

AFTER THE THEN I order a new charger on Amazon- it took a while. IT WON'T WORK so now I have to wait to get my money back and order a new one.

Fuck my life.

 

HOWEVER

I do have a paper draft. It just won't be typed up for a while.


	4. Chapter 3 (ignore the last one)

Arya was almost giddy with excitement. It reminded her of the one cup of wine she was allowed at dinner - thick and warm and lingering in the back of her throat. There was a bounce in her every step; not even training with the Master-at-arms and sparring with Jon was enough to burn away the fires of excitement that flared in time with her pulse every heartbeat of the day. Even Jon was smiling more now- a sheepish sort of grin that made him look younger, softer. Arya wasn't sure if that was because he no longer believed himself a bustard, had little Ghost always following at his heels getting into all sorts of trouble, or because the King was coming to Winterfell. She was fairly sure the answer to her question is 'not-a-bastard' but the King's pending arrival was exciting too! The entirety of Winterfell was in an uproar. The servants now had twice as much work to do, preparing Winterfell to house the King's Procession.

Her Lady mother didn't like that she was allowed to use a sword, impeding on time that should have been spent learning knitting and embroidery, courtesies and how to please a husband with pretty smiles and silly hairstyles that, to Arya, looked stupid and uncomfortable. Now that Jon knew his heritage and Arya was adamant to be at his side if he chose to claim the Iron Throne, Father had placed them in the same sort of lessons Robb took- Lords and allies, histories of the greater and lesser houses. That book brought with a mix of amusement and anger -the gods knew why- that left her torn between flipping a page and tearing it right off. She wasn't sure why the book inspired such feelings -it was interesting but dully written.

Truthfully, Arya didn't much actually care about the King. After all, he wasn't _actually_ king -Jon was. But loads of other important people were coming. Like Jaime Lannister-youngest Kingsguard in history! Best swordsman in Westeros, save Ser Barristan- he was coming too! Arya wondered if they would be allowed to tell him the truth about Jon. It would be amazing to have _Ser_ _Barristan_ on _Jon's_ Kingsguard. She would have to ask Father; if he had the time. The Hound was coming too, and Arya wondered if he was really as ugly as the stories said. 

Right now, she was sitting cross-legged by the fireplace of Father's solar, petting her Pack, as Jon referred to them. Together, they had decided on names. Ghost, Nymeria, Grey Wind, Summer, Shaggydog -Jon made a face when she suggested it but didn't argue, just sighed- and Snow. Arya wasn't sure why he would want to name one of them after a name he had been so ashamed of, but Jon said it was for all the other Snows out there who had also been told they were worthless. She supposed that made sense. Father was looking over some papers on his desk, frowning like he always did when he was deep in thought. Arya had worked to memorize the exact way his brow furrowed. Jon was busy at the moment, so she had decided to stay here for a bit. Arya had attached herself to him constantly since her dreams, and while Ned didn't know the reason why, he certainly appreciated the company of his wild but adoring daughter. Even if she was avoiding her mother after their latest row.

Catelyn firmly refused to believe that Arya's dreams and Jon's destiny provided a good reason for her daughter to learn a sword and 'act like a wildling!' She was blaming Jon for it, of course. Perhaps hating him was a habit now, even without reason. There was nothing Ned could do about that other than voice his disapproval of her behaviour; both in mistreating Jon and discouraging Arya.

From what Ser Rodrick reported, little Arya took to swordplay like a natural, advancing faster than even Robb. She had the older man in a bit of a knot - she improvised on every technique he taught her, adapting it into a style that was fitted to her unique strengths and weaknesses.

"If I didn't know better," the master-at-arms told him the other day, 'I could think she was taught overseas. She'll be moving on to live steel in a few moons."

The upcoming arrival was tying Ned in a knot- one of fear, stress and dread. Jon Arryn, who had acted as a father to him and Robert, was dead. A letter had come from Lysa, saying that the Lannisters killed him. Officially, it was an accident, but... Lannisters had no honour.

He knew what Robert wanted, that he was going to ask Ned to serve as his hand. Should he accept? Refuse? Robert was his friend and King... Seated on a throne that was rightfully Jon's. Aegon's. His kin-Lyanna's son. Rheagar Targaryen's son. Robert would kill him if he found out the boy's true identity.

Robert... The North was isolated, true, and Ned had been too busy ruling it to pay attention to the goings-on of the South. But even he had heard tale of Robert's drinking. He didn't know if it was true or simply exaggerated, but Robert had drunk plenty and whored plenty before he took the throne. He had not thought much of it during the Rebellion, but now... Ned wondered if Lyanna knew that she had been betrothed to an unfaithful. Robert was waging war in the name of saving Lyanna- his beloved. He should not have been taking every tavern serving girl he laid his eyes on into his bed.

Of course, hindsight always came late.

Ned knew what he had to do.

 

oo00oo 

 

 

Toe-heel, heel-toe; Arya rocked back and forth as she stood between Bran and Sansa, the ninny.

"Look!" she nudged Bran. "That's the Hound! I wonder how he sees enough to steer his horse - that helm can't be comfortable..." The Hound was indeed a huge man with a horse -Stranger, she recalled - to match. Having looked her fill, Arya's eyes flicked to the prince. She gasped.

 _Hatred_ , hot and bubbling like a hot-spring welled up inside her, churning in her belly and making her sway on her feet. To eleven-year-old Arya, the feeling was entirely foreign, a concept she had yet to be exposed to. Not even Jeyne Poole -the reason everyone called her Horseface when they thought she couldn't hear - ignited such feelings within her. She hated the cruel glitter inside his beady green eyes, like the backs of a beetle. She hated his weak jaw and pointy chin, his oddly small face, like his head hadn't quite grown with his body. She hated the way he was slumped on his horse, riding with sloppy posture that made her want to whack him over the head. It was like bone-deep laziness -an attempt to look graceful, perhaps?- saturated his every action. His arms were thin and without muscle; in fact, his entire body was reedy. Joffrey wasn't handsome or gallant. He was the most repulsive thing she'd ever laid eyes upon, and Jon or Robb could both have easily snapped him in half like the weak twig that he was.

Then the wheelhouse was pulled in, distracting her, and Arya forgot all about unfamiliar feelings. "Is the queen really in that?" she asked loudly. "That's _stupid_! Can't she ride a horse? It isn't that hard." Someone -one of the Kingsguard- chuckled.

"Shut _up_!" Sansa shoved her hard. Arya scowled and kicked mud, splattering her dress. Her sister shrieked in indignation. Arya, of course, just turned back in time to see the king ride in. He was fat.

" How did he even get on his horse?" she exclaimed. "He probably can't even see his own feet!" Someone laughed, again, and she scowled at them before they took off their helm. Then she brightened, nudging Bran. "Look! That's Ser Barristan - he's the best swordsmen in all of Westeros!" She waved, beaming, and the Knight -he had an old face, weathered by time, but kind blue eyes- smiled back fondly. "Do you think he would give us a lesson if we asked?" she muttered to Bran. Her brother seemed enthused by the prospect, gazing at Ser Barristan eagerly.

The king finally managed to dismount his horse -with the help of _steps_ ; Arya wrinkled her nose in disdain- and they all knelt. Then, the man had the audacity to call her father fat. _What?_

 _"_ Excuse _you,"_ she muttered indignantly - not that anyone heard her this time.

The Queen got out, disdain written all over her force. Arya had the sudden, visceral urge to go find Ice and lob off her head, then roll it around in horse manure. Startled by the violent urges she'd never felt before, her reply to the King asking her name was sullen and snippy. Mother was going to have her hide later.

Arya caught sight of Jaime Lannister. "That's the Queen's twin brother!" she informed Bran. "He's second-best in Westeros..." She elbowed Sansa before she spat some insult. "Where's the Imp?"

The queen heard her. Arya made a note to talk softly from now on. That woman wasn't a lion- she was a snake hiding in the grass, waiting to strike where it hurt the most.

 

That night at the feast, Arya was quiet and subdued. Something was scratching at her mind; an itch that wouldn't go away, wouldn't be soothed. Her food tasted like ash in her mouth -and yes, she knew what that tasted like, thank you, Robb, for that _brilliant_ dare- and she couldn't find it in her to care that Sansa was subtly weaving insults her way while speaking to the other girls. Perhaps the heat was affecting her- the hall was stuffed to the brim, and smoke from the inches was starting to fog the ceiling and gather around pillars- because Arya swore she could hear the voice of someone who wasn't there.

_You must see with your eyes._

_I am seeing!_

_The heart lies and the head plays tricks with us, but the eyes see true._

Her eyes narrowed, flicking across the table, to the King, kissing a busty serving girl -in front of the Queen! If Arya didn't dislike her so, she would pity the disdainful woman. The angry woman. The feeling Arya felt earlier -it was intensified tenfold in Cersei's eyes as she watched the blatant unfaithfulness of her husband. Arya had never seen either one of her parents act in such a way -but. Catelyn had looked at Jon that way, sometimes, when she thought no one was watching.

She didn't feel good. She wanted to leave. 

Arya flung her peas at Sansa -the most efficient way to gain her mother's attention ( her mother's ears were tuned to Sansa's shrieks after all these years) and get lifted out of her chair by Robb, who was valiantly trying to contain his snickers. Arya hadn't the energy to pretend to be disappointed -she just stuck her tongue out at Sansa over Robb's shoulder. 

She snuggled into him, something that surprised her older sibling. Arya was certainly a tactile person, but she was far more likely to punch you than snuggle. Only Jon, really, and Father, he supposed, got hugs. He did too, but not nearly as often. Now that he was nearly a man, the time they spent together was significantly reduced.

Arya was unusually quiet that night as he tucked her into bed, staring up at the ceiling with a strange, pensive expression. Robb mulled over that until he returned to the feast, where such worries were forgotten in favour of good ale, food, and laughing with the other boys.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if this chapter is quite long enough, but it's been so long the wheels in my brain have rusted over. I think just about everyone in the stark family sensed the pure bitter hatred that is Cersei Lannister, so I thought that with Arya's (sort of) memory, she would hate Cersei and Joffrey from the start. 0f course, by the time everyone died and Arya was sent back, I would like to think that Jaime matured into a good, honorable individual. I'm planning to explore just what honor really means, to different people. I look forward to his character arc.
> 
> * Let me know, would you like a short chapter from the perspective o one of the Lannisters next? which one? *
> 
> Until next time!
> 
> (Don't forget to leave Kudos, comments, and subscribe if you want to know the moment I next update!)
> 
> Lyze


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! I know, it's been so long! My muse really slipped away from me, and with the school year wrapping up, I am just DROWNING in school work. And I will DIE before i go to fucking summer school. So, fanfiction writing is on the back birner for the moment. I'll try and release some new stuff, when I can. 
> 
>  
> 
> I'll make you a deal. More comments = more chapters!
> 
>  
> 
> Any takers?
> 
>  
> 
> oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Age had begun in the assault on his bones and his body. Or perhaps it was simply a weariness for the tediousness that was life: there was little pride to be found in guarding a drunken fool king day and night. Robert was not a Mad King, but he was hardly benevolent; unless one compared him to his son. Barristan fervently hoped he did not live long enough to be that boy's Kingsguard, for he had all the makings for a mad king, and much earlier in life than Aerys. 

Not to say he had enjoyed serving Aerys either- he could still remember the stench of flesh burned to melted fat and charred black bones that crumbled and had to be swept. Or the stink of sweat when the King went weeks without bathing, and the smell would permeate the air and merge with everything else. He could still hear the echo of Aerys' cackles as he ordered a man maimed or burned, or the screams of his wife when he raped her at night. But with Aerys had come the shining beacon of hope in his son - in Rheagar.

Rheagar, the noble and kind prince who'd been determined to make a difference for the better. Skilled in battle and politics, destined for the Iron Throne. Until he threw it all away, for the sake of a woman with a wild spirit, steel in her eyes, and a bewitching smile.

Now in Winterfell, that very same face seemed to stare back at him.

The thought hit him like a punch in the gut the moment her voice first drew his attention. The commentary had been hilarious (and quite true, frankly.) And he was reminded again of Rheagar, whom he'd not had the heart to think of in years. It was clear to see what the Dragon Prince had seen in the Wolf.

There were differences, of course. This girl had not yet grown into her beauty. Her eyes were a shade darker, her hair very messy, and somewhat (more than somewhat) disdainful of the Royal Family. Her face darkened like a winter storm when she saw the Queen. It was startling to see such hatred in somewhat so young. There was confusion, too. Barristan wondered if she perhaps sensed the seething pit bitterness that was Cersei. Children were sensitive to such things after all, and even the Lord and Lady Stark seemed somewhat wary. Cersei had that effect. She was a little sharper, too, than Lyanna. Less gentle, but even more fierce still.

But back to this moment in time - the girl had just asked him something. What? Oh, yes.

"I would be honoured to teach you and your sibling -once I'm off duty, of course, my Lady." Little Arya grimaced.

"I'm not a Lady. Ladies roll over like dogs and faint at the sight of blood." Barristan coughed, thinking of the Queen, who would probably laugh- depending on whose blood it was.

"And who told you that, my Lady?" he inquired curiously. She scowled.

"Septa Mordane says women aren't capable of fighting, or strong like men, and that all we should think about is getting a husband. And in the songs, the lady always feints. It's stupid. Therefore, I am not a Lady, _thanks_."

Barristan barked a laugh. "Very well then, little wolf. If you wake early at dawn tomorrow, I will meet you in the training yard." She beamed.

"I'll be there, then." Glowering fiercely, she added, "I'm going to be an even better fighter than Princess Nymeria or Visenya." Before he could reply, the wildling child ran off. Just in time, too, he thought as she turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

"Dammit, Ned! I didn't come all this way for nothing!"

 

"I DON'T CARE IF you SENT A BLASTED RAVEN! I NEED A GODS DAMNED HAND!"

 

"LIKE WHO? TYWIN LANNISTER? CERSEI AND THE REST OF HIS CHILDREN ARE BAD ENOUGH!"

 

"NO, I WILL N0T HAVE FUCKING STANNIS!" 

 

"I AM YOUR KING! HANG THE NORTH! I NEED YOU IN KING'S LANDING! MARRY THE GIRL TO JOFFREY IF YOU WANT!"

 

 

"0H, A PRINCE ISN'T GOOD ENOUGH FOR HER, N0W?"

 

Something made of glass smashed against the wall and shattered. Barristan sighed through his nose. It was not even midday, and he was already weary.

 

oo00oo

 

The feast was a tense affair. Robert was drunk before the first course; the ruddiness of his cheeks could not be hidden by the poor lighting. He was pointedly not conversing with Lord Stark, who very obviously wished to be anywhere else but his own feast hall. It was not long before the king stood to grope the servant woman.

Cersei was engaging in a cold litany of barely concealed insults with the lady Stark, who was doing her admirable best to keep a polite conversation while also defending her family and home. 

Barristan settled against the pillar, keeping his eyes on and around the king in search of any threats. His honour forced him to put in the effort, lest he loses it -alongside everything else already gone. So Barristan sighed through his nose as he had a thousand times before, and went on with his most unenviable duty.

 

oo00oo

 

           In all honesty, though Barristan was eager to share a lesson with the second and third youngest Starks, it wasn't because he really expected anything to come of it. Maybe show the children a few new techniques, have a few laughs and smile a few smiles that young children were wont to summon to his face. 

          He did not expect to find himself rubbing a bruise after the Little Wolf smacked him with the flat of her training sword- _again._

         "Who taught you to fight like that?" he inquired, trying to ignore his bruised pride in favour of his curiosity. Never before had he seen a style like this; all misleading motions, unerringly precise strikes and fluid motion that almost made him feel clumsy in comparison. That she was only a girl of eleven made it even more impressive. She was as good as Jaime Lannister was at this age-perhaps even better. Her face held the same joyous expression of a born fighter in their element.

           "Ser Rodrick did, I suppose."

            "You suppose?" he inquired. The girl bit her lip and studied him for a moment. Finally, she said;

            "Ser Rodrick is the Master-at-arms. But the way I fight -I don't know. It's just me. It feels right, is all." She shrugged, helpless to find other words.

"That is very unusual," Barristan remarked. "Most people simply adopt the style of the person who trains them, and the ones that deviate usually achieve such by travelling and studying others who have a foreign fighting style themselves. Your movements remind me of a foreigner I saw fight, once. He wasn't very strong, but, he certainly was fast."

"Hmmm." She hummed. "I always wanted to cross the sea." She darted forward, and he parried the blow. "What is it like, being a Kingsguard?" he hid a grimace, grasping for appropriate wording.

"There is no greater honor than to serve the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms," he spoke diplomatically.

She snorted so hard she choked.

"He's a drunk!" she exclaimed. "He probably doesn't remember the last day at all! I thought kings were supposed to be like Father. He's a great Lord - everybody in Winterfell respects him. " She scowled deeply. "And Father doesn't... Do things with other women." Barristan said nothing.

"But I suppose that a Drunk is better than the Mad King," she continued on. "He doesn't burn people. Did Rheagar burn people?" she asked the question with a suspicious amount of sweetness."

"Prince Rheagar..." Barristan refrained himself from defending the man he'd so eagerly waited to serve.

"Did he really steal my aunt against her will?" There was a definitive gleam in her eyes now."

"That is what the history books say," Barristan spoke blandly.

"But do you think they're right?" she pressed.

"The Maesters are the most knowledgeable men in Westeros. I've never known them to be wrong."

Now she glared at him as though he'd said something offensive.

"0f course they can be wrong! It was Maesters who wrote the books on wights and walkers and the Long Night. Now everyone says their wrong. So either the Maester's can be wrong, or all the stones are right, and the Maesters today are still wrong."

Well. It was a little had to argue that.

"No." He admitted. "I would never have thought it of him. He really was like one of the princes from the songs. He cared about the people. Wanted to be better than his father. He... was entranced by her, from the moment he saw her. But he never forced himself on anyone." The girl listened solemnly.

"But she was betrothed to Robert. She had no reason to leave."

"I would have left," she declared, raising her chin. "If I was sold like a broodmare to a man who beds a different woman every night, I would sail across the Narrow Sea and never come back." 

Barristan opened his mouth to speak-

"Arya!"

He turned to see a boy at the upper walkway-and choked on his own air. 

The hair was different. Dark, like a typical Stark. His beard had not yet begun to grow in. His eyes were grey, and he wore a black cloak instead of red; but by the gods, that was Rheagar's face staring back at him. The Kingsguard swayed where he stood, nearly dropping the sword in his hands. 

"Jon!" The little Stark's face lit with absolute joy.

"Your- our Lord Father sent me before Lady Catelyn sends someone else," he called down. "If you don't get in a dress, she'll have you locked in the Sept for the day with Mordane."

Arya stomped off muttering about how the Septa and the sept could burn in the seven hells.

That was enough to snap him out of his reverie; a lady should not speak like that. 

Then the both of them were gone, and he was left standing alone.

And for the first time in a decade, Barristan began to question.


End file.
